


Practical Magic for Beginners

by maybemalapert (laconicisms)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bodyswap, Licking, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:18:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/maybemalapert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Deaton does not make it sound dirty; that comes from Stiles and Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practical Magic for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _"Eating blueberries off your body."_ by atanih88 in the first round of [stop-drop-howl](stop-drop-howl.livejournal.com). Lots of love goes to miya_tenaka, morganoconner and sycophantastic for alpha- and betaing this. Any remaining mistakes are entirely on me. :)

Stiles is, at most, a moderately good wizard -- in video games, that is. He usually prefers playing a rogue because rogues are better at getting out of the way and just sneaking past any danger than wizards are and they're also not usually the tanks like warriors tend to be. Stiles hates playing as a warrior tank since he keeps dying repeatedly and can do little more than bash enemies over the head.

He's more one for strategy, really.

The thing about real life is this: he doesn't have the body build of a tank, he doesn't have the stealth skills of a rogue (not when up against werewolves and the like, at least), and the only thing he manages to do is research arcane lore and encircle a building in magical ash.

In real life, Stiles is a wizard.

And wizards need to rely on magical protection.

\--

Stiles isn't reckless. He always checks his sources, double-checks, triple-checks. The first time he tries something spell-like, he makes sure he doesn't have to go stealing body parts and that he's not actually doing anything to _himself_ because that would be beyond stupid.

The lucky pendant gleams brightly in his hand. Two days later, Stiles narrowly escapes being hit by a bus because he trips and falls flat on his face just as he was about to cross the street.

When he pulls the pendant out from under his shirt, it looks dull and lifeless.

\--

Stiles isn't reckless, but he's been working magic to some degree or another for over half a year now -- a year and a half if he counts the mountain ash and the kanima in the old factory -- and he feels fairly confident he's gotten the hang of it.

He still doesn't rob graves, but he looks into things that seem a little more out there and possibly involve magic being worked on himself.

He's not stupid. He quadruple-checks the sources.

\--

It's because he's not reckless or stupid that he leaves a message on Derek's cell phone before performing the spell in case anything goes wrong because Derek should know what he was trying to do when he comes back to find Stiles in his house passed out on the floor or something. That shouldn't happen, of course, because Stiles has been careful, but better safe than sorry.

(In retrospect, he should have probably just written a note and put it onto the rickety table, but whatever.)

The spell is to be performed on the day or night of a full moon. That's the blueberries' fault, Stiles knows. They're most potent around that day. Stiles chooses to do it at night, in the partially restored Hale house, because that's when Derek is out to take the pack for a run and howl at the moon and chase rabbits and whatever it is werewolves do while running through a forest. In any case, Derek won't be back until early morning and won't interrupt anything.

He draws a big circle around himself with chalk in the living room. The circle isn't perfectly round, doesn't need to be. It's the intent that matters and as long as it's closed it does the trick of keeping out any unwanted spirits.

Stiles has only just finished dipping his hands into the bowl of blueberry juice and smearing that all over his body, which is entirely lacking in the clothes department, when he realizes that while a chalk circle might keep out _spirits_ , it has absolutely no effect on furiously growling werewolves.

By the time he's opened his mouth to tell Derek to _stay the fuck out of the circle that keeps magic both in and out_ , Derek's already crossed it.

There's no flash of light, no sparks going off, no odd wind blowing. Stiles simply blacks out.

\--

The thing about quadruple-checking something is that you actually think you don't need to quintuple-check it because you already know everything there is to know.

Stiles does not know everything there is to know; he only knows that Derek just messed up his spell and that he, Stiles, has absolutely no idea how to reverse something like _that_.

"We're going to call Deaton, now," Derek says and then frowns, probably because that didn't come out quite as commanding and alpha as it usually does. Which is probably because Derek's voice isn't the voice of an alpha right now, but that of an 18-year-old Stilinski. 18-year-old Stilinskis don't sound like alpha werewolves. Stiles would know.

Derek leans forward to reach into the jacket Stiles is wearing right now, hand brushing Stiles's chest and Stiles shivers and licks his lips and tries to tell himself that he shouldn't be turned on by his own body touching himself in Derek's body even if -- _especially if_ \-- he, Derek in Stiles body, isn't wearing anything. Fuck, this is complicated. Derek freezes with the cell in his hand, and an odd scent tickles Stiles's nose, is gone before he can figure out what it is. Derek snarls under his breath and pulls back. The snarl sounds human to Stiles's ears, but still loud, probably because he's currently in Derek's body with all of Derek's super enhanced senses.

Derek browses through his contacts quickly, then puts the phone to his ear. He's fidgety; one of his feet taps the floor incessantly and he keeps running a hand through his (through Stiles') hair. When Deaton answers his call, Stiles has no problem following both ends of the conversation, which is a nifty skill to have in general, but not when Deaton is basically chewing both him and Derek out. Well, mostly Stiles.

"How. Do. We. Reverse it?" Derek grits out for the third time. He's less intimidated by the vet than Stiles is, which is unsurprising considering Derek once kidnapped him. Hard to be intimidated by someone you can manhandle like that, Stiles supposes.

"By completing it," Deaton replies, pauses. "Completely."

Stiles grabs the cell from Derek's hand, ignoring Derek's glare. "So I just drink the remaining blueberry juice in the bowl?" he asks. "Or Derek does?"

"No, you, Stiles, need to consume all of it now. The remains no longer serve as a stand-in for the juice on your body since you're no longer _in_ the body."

Stiles lets the meaning of these words sink in. He eyes Derek. Derek glowers back even though he couldn't have possibly heard what Deaton had said. Stiles's hearing isn't that good.

"And that reverses the whole body-swap thing?"

"It's the only thing I can think of," Deaton replies before ending the call. Stiles supposes it was a bit rude to wake him at two in the morning.

"Why are you here already anyway?" Stiles asks Derek as he hands back the cell.

"You don't think I check my phone regularly?"

"Yeah, but everyone you know is with you."

"Yes, everyone but the idiot human performing hocus-pocus in my house," Derek grumbles. "So what did he say?"

It's such an obvious change of topic. Stiles beams at Derek and croons, "You like me, admit it."

"At the moment, I really don't."

"Self-hate isn't good for you."

"Stiles."

"Fine. I have to, uh, lick the blueberry juice. Off your, my, body." Said like this it sounds way more kinky and sex-like than the way Deaton said it, and Stiles feels his cheeks grow warmer. He spares an irritated thought for the lack of mirrors in the room because he would have liked to see what Derek looks like when he's blushing.

Derek closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. There's a pause where Stiles _thinks_ he can read the numbers one to ten off Derek's lips, before Derek flops onto the ground and growls, "Fine. Get on with it." Well, only sort of growls, because Stiles's voice doesn't lend itself to growling.

All of Derek's mannerisms look really funny on Stiles's body.

Stiles sighs and takes off the leather jacket for greater freedom of movement. He shuffles forward on his knees, stops when he comes to the part where he has to bend down and lick his own body clean. The body that has Derek Hale in it now.

He doesn't know what weirds him out more.

No, correction, another part of his anatomy tells him: He doesn't know what he finds hotter.

Stiles tries to valiantly ignore the fact that _that part_ of his anatomy is actually Derek's part of Derek's anatomy. He only halfway succeeds because once he lets himself think about it, he can't seem to stop noticing the differences between his own body and the one he's occupying now. His hands are bigger, and his arms more muscled. His usually short-cropped hair has the advantage of not tickling his temple when he moves his head.

And then there's the fact of Derek's cock just somehow feeling different from his own. He doesn't know what is different or how he could possibly know without looking, but, shit. For all he knows, Derek is just really big and that's what a really big cock feels like. (Stiles's isn't small; it's just average and he's perfectly fine with that.)

"Stiles."

"Right," says Stiles and lowers his head to lick at Derek's shoulder. Good neutral point that.

The part of Derek's body that is entirely under Stiles control now and has been taking an interest takes even more of an interest now, but Stiles barely notices because Derek does a full body shudder and while that might be revulsion, the smell Stiles had noticed earlier is back in full force and combined with the slight mewling and the -- yep, stirring of Stiles's cock (under control of Derek's mind at the moment) -- well, all of that adds up to one giant conclusion:

"You're attracted to me!" Stiles crows and continues talking before his brain can catch up with his mouth again. "Unless you're attracted to yourself, which I totally understand by the way, what with how hot you look."

Derek rolls his eyes to the ceiling and doesn't react to that statement at all. Stiles is just about to resign himself to not getting an answer when Derek mumbles, "I'm not attracted to myself."

He puts a tiny bit of emphasis on the last word, enough to make Stiles's heart beat just a bit faster.

"Okay, okay," Stiles says, trying not to grin widely and failing miserably and cursing the room for its lack of mirrors again. "So, I'll just keep licking you." He wiggles his eyebrows even though Derek isn't looking at him.

Derek raises his hand and slaps the back of his head. "Get on with it, Stiles." The words sound a lot different this time.

Stiles bends his neck again and begins licking at Derek's (his) upper body in earnest, circling Derek's clavicle, licking into the hollow where the two bones meet before moving downwards and to the side. The sounds he makes sound a lot like a dog licking something, which isn't surprising because the juice has dried to Derek's (Stiles's) body by now and he needs to put some effort into getting all of it off his skin. Derek holds as still as possible, but when Stiles's tongue brushes over his nipple, he twitches and hisses under his breath. So Stiles does it again and closes his mouth around it, sucking.

"I think," Derek says after a few moments. "I think that's clean now."

Stiles hums in reluctant agreement and moves on to the other one.

It takes Derek a little longer to speak up this time.

\--

Even though Stiles isn't particularly big, there is a lot of skin to clean. To wit, there are his shoulders and the little spot behind his ears, which have Derek flushing, eyes fluttering shut.

There is his face, the cheeks, the nose, the closed eyelids, which have Derek squirming underneath him

Then there are his fingers, which Stiles takes an inordinate amount of time to clean, licking them, kissing them, sucking them into his mouth as deep as he can and watching as Derek's eyes glaze over and he moans before moving on to his other hand and repeating the process until he can see Derek's (his) dick stand erect out of the corner of his eyes. It's leaking precome.

Then there are his stomach and his sides, which have Derek lying frozen beneath him as Stiles battles with the instincts of a wolf to bite into the soft tissue underneath. He can feel the canines in his mouth grow longer, can see his nails turning into claws, and he knows that Derek notices. The whole thing does absolutely nothing to cool down Derek's erection, however; if anything he looks even more painfully aroused.

And moving down to his legs might have brought on a slight lull, but Stiles is convinced they both needed that because, personally, he was just about to come in his, Derek's, pants. Either that or completely wolfing out, Stiles isn't sure which.

He eyes his hands, which still bear claws instead of finger nails.

"Carefully," Derek whispers lowly. "Don't scratch me."

"Why?" Stiles replies, also whispering. Something is pulling at him, pulling him towards Derek or towards his own body and he knows, with absolute certainty now, that once he licks the last drops of juice off of his body he will rush back into it.

"A scratch can be enough to turn someone if it goes deep enough."

Stiles puts his clawed hand on Derek's belly, tips of his fingers pointed down, biting lightly into the skin. Derek stops breathing and his cock gives a twitch. "You don't want to be turned, Stiles," he wheezes out. "Not like that."

"I might." He starts drawing his claws over Derek's belly in circles and Derek mewls again. It's the most arousing sound Stiles has ever heard.

"Not when you, not -- after, we can talk about it after. I want to be the one to do it."

(Later on, Stiles will realize that if Derek had said 'not while you're not in your right mind', which he clearly wanted to because it was true, Stiles, the wolf in Stiles, would have acted out of spite. Stiles will be incredibly glad that at least one of them kept their head until Stiles could actually give very explicit consent to any kind of bite marks on his body.)

"Fine," Stiles sighs, grabs Derek's (his) dick with his other hand and bends over to take him into his mouth. Derek's back arches off the floor and his hands grab onto Stiles's (Derek's) head.

"Teeth!" Derek shouts, and Stiles growls because he's watching the teeth, thank you very much. He lets Derek's hands pull him up before batting them away.

"You're going to finish that," he growls, really _growls_ , and waits for Derek's nod before licking the last particles of juice off the soft skin between his thigh and groin.

\--

Stiles faints again, of course, but when he wakes up Derek's head is right next to his cock and Derek is awake and eyeing Stiles in the way only a predator can: utterly focussed on his prey.

And Stiles is _achingly_ hard; he doesn't know how Derek stood it. "Please. Please, Derek."

Derek's eyes flash red like Stiles has just turned into an even tastier morsel, and he opens his mouth to show Stiles his fangs.

Stiles whimpers, he can't help it, and Derek's face changes into the half wolf, half human form he prefers even as an alpha.

It should scare Stiles out of his mind.

It makes him _moan_.

" _Derek._ "

"Do you still want it?" Derek rumbles at him. Stiles almost shouts, 'yes, what the hell is wrong with you? I'm dying here!' before realizing that it's about something else altogether and--

\--and.

And Stiles has wanted to be a werewolf; Derek's creepy uncle was right, but he fucking didn't want to be Peter Hale's werewolf. Now being Derek's, though, that's something he might have -- secretly, desperately -- wanted for a long time. "Yes. Oh god, yes." He shoves his hand into his mouth because he doesn't think he can keep himself from begging even more than he already did for everything Derek has to offer him, fucking _everything_. But then Derek grabs his wrists and pulls his hand away, presses it down on the floor, and the words just rush out of Stiles's mouth, and if Stiles's makes little sense to other people when he's barely agitated, he makes even less sense now, not even to himself. It's a long litany of, 'please', and 'Derek', and 'please, oh god, just do it, do it do it do it, please.'

And then Derek's mouth closes over Stiles's cock and Stiles almost flies up off the floor at the feeling of Derek's tongue and Derek's mouth and never even mind about Derek's hand still pressing his wrist to the floor. Derek's other hand is pushing down on one hip as he moves up and down, once, twice, and then sinks the tip of his fangs into the soft skin of Stiles' cock.

Stiles brain overloads. He can't tell if it hurts or feels good or anything, he just knows he's coming so hard he sees stars -- fuck, who sees stars in real life -- in front of his eyes, and there's someone screaming Derek's name and fuck, that might be him.

"Shh," someone else, Derek, says. Near his ear, and when had Derek moved further up? And when had Stiles closed his eyes?

Derek's hand moves from his wrist to his fingers and guides Stiles's own hand to, yeah, that's Derek's cock, still hard. Stiles floats, noticing in a detached way, how both their hands grasp Derek's cock -- bigger than his own, yes -- how they rub, how Derek pulses and comes, spilling over their fingers.

He sighs, eyes closing again, as Derek mouths at his throat.

"You think I'm fucking irresistible, admit it," Stiles mumbles, and Derek shakes against him, laughing.

"I do."


End file.
